


signed, sealed, delivered

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Alternate Universe - Postman Paul, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: Postman Paul McCartney delivers the post to the village eccentric, John Lennon.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	signed, sealed, delivered

**Author's Note:**

> More draft clearing out. I think I had this whole idea around Paul and John gradually coming to know one another, and John's cottage representing a safe place for their relationship to grow into something more... But, then again, there's not much you can do with postman Paul (even if the image itself is wonderful).

John watched the postman’s approach through the net curtains of his kitchen.

It was hardly healthy, to anticipate the arrival of a stranger. A stranger, it should be noted, with whom he had never held a conversation with in his life. Some weeks prior old Brown had retired, or bit the dust, or something, and in his stead a younger lad with dark hair, bright eyes, and clever, deft hands had started making the rounds.

And it was some round. Eight miles a trip, John thought vaguely, from here to the village. Down winding country lanes between patchwork paddocks dotted with livestock, with the crisp northern wind hurtling through the mulberry and blackberry bushes to tangles in the boughs of the oaks, many of which loomed over the dirt lanes like sentries. Cynthia had told him that the farmhouse reminded her of a grotto, and not only because John’s house habits left much to be desired.

“I think it’s all the moss on the front gate,” she said thoughtfully, putting away a wicker basket full of food. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her proud face, revealing the flush that her new beau, that Twist bloke, had no doubt brought to her otherwise dreary life. “Or the ivy on the front wall.”

“It’s for character,” John reminded her grumpily, hunched at the kitchen table. He watched her put away a fresh loaf of bread. “I can look after meself, you know,” he added.

“That,” Cynthia replied in a crisp tone of voice, “is up for debate.”

The late summer sun caught the bell affixed to the front of the postman’s bike as he wound into the drive. John lurked in the shadows. The tight blue uniform revealed long legs which tapered into black leather shoes; even his dark tie was perfectly straight, and his box-hat sat at just the right angle to accentuate his long sideburns and the way his eyebrows arched, as if in perpetual pleasant surprise. When he wound into the front courtyard, the gravel crunching beneath his front tire, John caught a snatch of a whistled tune. Something he might have heard down the pub, were he not such a recluse.

The postman wheeled to a stop. When he swung a leg over the back of his bike, he abruptly looked up. John dropped the curtains. He watched, nervous, as the postman’s shadow filtered through the white net curtains as he came up to the front door. The front bell trilled through the farmhouse. John remained rooted to the spot; his hands were clammy.

There came a polite rap on the wooden door.

“Mister Lennon?” God, even his _voice_ was bloody pleasant to listen to. The postman knocked once more. “Package for you. All the way from – Liverpool. Mighty long way, that!”

Bloody Mimi. Old as the dawn of time and still she insisted upon sending him stern but affectionate presents.

John cleared his throat. “Leave it on the door,” he yelled.

After a pause, the postman replied, “Looks like it might rain, though. Sure about that?”

He’d drifted into the foyer without realising. John stared at the brass post slot, as if by sheer will alone he could summon the nerve to peer through at one of the loveliest creatures that had ever come up his stupidly lonely drive. A half-remembered song about heartbreak hotels drifted through his mind.

“Yeah,” John said, although his voice cracked. He coughed. “Yes. I mean. Just leave it.”

“Righto, then.” The postman sounded far too cheerful. The shadow dipped as he put the package down, then receded as he returned to his bike. John listened to the sound of the safety catch being kicked back, and the renewed crunch of gravel as the postman walked the bike around. He trilled the bell once.

“Have a good day, Mister Lennon.”

“You too,” John figured out to say, but by the time he had, the postman had gone.


End file.
